Chapter 10 I'll get justice myself！

Elena's POV

"Can't you stop being so damn sensitive? Sabrina went out of her way to find this place for you—if you report this, how is she supposed to hold her head up in front of her friends?"

I stared at my mother in shock, the words hanging between us like something physical I could touch.

"Mom, I was just assaulted. And you're worried about Sabrina's reputation?"

I pulled out my phone to call the police, but she lunged forward and grabbed my wrist, the apple pie splattering across the tile like roadkill.

Her voice went shrill.

"Don't you dare call the police! She's about to start her study abroad program—you report this and it'll affect how people in her circle see her!"

"Are you serious? Her study abroad program drained every penny I had saved, and now I'm supposed to let myself get violated?"

The words came out sharp, unfamiliar—I'd never spoken to my mother like this before, never lost control this way.

"Look at you. You're throwing a fit just over a little money. Sabrina has been your blood supply for over a decade."

I took a deep breath, yanked my wrist free, and grabbed my phone.

My fingers shook so badly it took three tries to hit the right numbers.

"911. 73 Berlin Street. I was sexually assaulted by a masseur at a spa. I need officers dispatched."

As I hung up, I heard low breathing behind me, laced with suppressed amusement.

I turned around.

He was leaning against the doorframe in the hallway, hands in his pockets, gray-blue eyes catching the light.

"Calling the cops on me?" His voice came out slow. "Brave."

My mother rushed over and grabbed my arm, her nails digging through my sleeve.

"Have you lost your mind? I told you not to call the police! You want to drag Sabrina's name through the mud, is that it?"

"Sabrina." I cut her off, turning to look her in the face. "Right. Thanks for reminding me—she's the one who found this place for me. Did she know what kind of place this was all along?"

My mother's mouth opened, but before she could answer, sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, red and blue lights bleeding through the frosted glass door.

The ride to the station took less than ten minutes, but it felt endless.

The officers had separated us—me and my mother in one squad car, the masseur in another.

When we got to the police station, an officer directed us to a row of plastic chairs near the front desk while another went to make calls.

I sat down, my mother beside me, neither of us speaking.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, and somewhere down the hallway, a phone rang and rang without answer.

We'd barely been there fifteen minutes when the glass doors swung open and Sabrina burst through with my father right behind her.

"What happened, Mom? I'm so scared."

Her eyes were bright and red-rimmed, lips pressed into a trembling line as she grabbed my mother's hand, then turned to me, her voice shaking.

"Elena! This is all my fault, but you can't hate me so much that you'd file a false report and frame the masseur I worked so hard to find for you!"

My father sighed beside her—that familiar sound I'd heard a thousand times, every time Sabrina and I had a conflict.

He'd sigh first, then shake his head, then stand firmly on her side.

"Elena," my father said, his voice heavy with exhaustion, "can't you be more mature about this? Making a scene at the police station—what does that look like?"

This scene was achingly familiar, the same pattern we'd repeated since childhood, but this time was different.

This time I'd actually been assaulted at that spa, and I had evidence.

Thank god I'd recorded everything.

The older officer came back holding my phone, his expression uncomfortable, and gestured for me to follow him to a quieter corner near the vending machines.

"Ma'am, we've reviewed your recording."

He paused, glancing past me toward where the masseur sat in another section of the lobby, then back at me.

"You did verbally agree to participate in a therapeutic relaxation session. We've confirmed that the establishment offers this particular treatment—it's properly registered and licensed. It's called Yoni massage."

The words hit me like ice water.

"What?"

"The recording clearly captures you consenting to the session after the masseur explained it was designed to relieve stress and tension."

He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable.

"We've cross-referenced with the spa's business license. This treatment is listed in their approved services."

"That's impossible!" My face went cold. "I didn't—I didn't know what he was going to—"

"Ma'am, the treatment is legitimate and licensed. Your consent is clearly documented on the recording."

My mother's voice cut through the air from across the lobby.

"The police have explained everything—how long are you going to keep this up? Don't you feel embarrassed?"

I stared at her.

Keep this up? Embarrassed?

I snatched my phone back and opened the recording app with trembling fingers.

My own voice played back, agreeing to a "relaxation therapy session" after he'd asked if I was stressed.

The words that had seemed innocent at the time now felt like a trap I'd walked right into.

"No! This can't be right!"

But it was my voice, clear as day, and the timestamp matched.

My father strode over, disgust plain in his eyes.

"You're supposed to be a lawyer—don't you know you can't make accusations without understanding what you agreed to?"

"Elena, please, let's just go home, okay? I know you blame me about Julian, but you can't drag innocent people into this!"

Sabrina came over and grabbed my arm, her voice breaking.

I pulled my arm free.

Sabrina suddenly stumbled backward and fell to the floor.

Before I could react, my father's hand cracked across my face.

The sting spread across my cheek, sharp and immediate.

I tasted copper.

"You dare lay hands on Sabrina? If it weren't for her, you wouldn't even be alive! Ungrateful."

I pressed my hand to my burning cheek, the heat of it radiating through my palm.

Were these really my family?

I'd always thought they just favored Sabrina a little more, but I never realized how little love they'd ever spared for me.

For more than twenty years, I'd walked on eggshells, making sure I never got hurt and never spilled a single drop of my blood, and in the end, all the credit still goes to Sabrina.

Everyone keeps telling me I ought to yield to her and be grateful to her, but she has never done a single thing for me, has she?

Instead, she uses this excuse to steal my parents' affection, take everything I own, and even snatch Julian.

Everybody sides with her.

I'm the one who's been wronged.

The officer looked at me with tired sympathy.

"Ma'am, as a lawyer, you should know we need evidence of wrongdoing to pursue a case. In this situation, you consented to a licensed treatment. If you continue to insist on pressing charges without additional evidence of coercion or assault, you could face charges for filing a false police report."

Something fractured inside me.

The law I'd devoted my life to, the system I'd believed in—it had failed me too.

I turned toward the man still leaning against the wall near the front desk, that same amused expression on his face.

"Tell them," I said, my voice coming out raw, "you knew exactly what you were doing. You tricked me."

The man looked at me, those gray-blue eyes glinting with amusement.

"You agreed to everything, isn't that right?"

He'd planned this from the start.

He absolutely planned this.

My mother's tone softened as she turned to the officers with an apologetic smile.

"I'm so sorry for the trouble. My daughter's been under a lot of work stress—she's not thinking clearly."

My father walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Alright, Elena. Apologize to Sabrina and the masseur. We're going home."

The last thread holding me together snapped.

"I won't apologize."

I lifted my chin, my gaze moving from my father to my mother, finally landing on Sabrina.

"I didn't file a false report. I didn't frame anyone. You believe him, you believe everyone—you've never believed me. You've never actually cared about what happens to me."

My peripheral vision caught something—the younger officer had stepped away momentarily to answer a call, leaving his service weapon sitting beside the logbook on the front desk, the holster unsnapped, black grip exposed.

The older officer was still facing my parents, his back half-turned to the desk.

My mind went blank except for this burning heat that shot from my chest down to my fingertips.

I took a step forward.

Then another.

My hand closed around cold metal.

"Elena!" My mother screamed.

The weight of the gun pulled my wrist down, heavier than I'd expected.

I raised my hand, the barrel pointing at the man.

"If my own family won't believe me, if the law I've devoted my life to has failed me, then I'll get justice myself."

Amusement flickered in his eyes.

He spread his arms wide and stepped toward me, one deliberate step after another, until the barrel was nearly pressed against his chest, close enough that I could feel his heartbeat vibrating through the metal.

"Bastard! Go to hell!"

His eyes darkened.

Then he wrapped his palm around my fingers and pushed the barrel another half-inch into his chest.

I felt the metal meet resistance, the fabric of his black shirt creating a small indentation just above his sternum.

He said, "Interesting. Pull the trigger."